


The Masterplan

by aralias



Series: Wonderwall/Masterplan [2]
Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunning Plans, M/M, Time War, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:56:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The problem with telling your still current husband that he may ask you for anything is that he may well do just that.</i><br/>Continuing in the Planet of Fire AU: At the Doctor's request, the Master helps end the Time War, makes the Doctor a lot of tea and has sex with him repeatedly. It's all very nice, which makes the Master wonder if he's losing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Masterplan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [x_los](https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/gifts).



The Master’s original plan had been exceptionally brilliant. Elegant and entirely ruthless, such a plan would have ended the Great War in a single month and would have ensured it deserved the title it has already acquired amongst the pessimists and the cowards: the _Last_ Great Time War. However, as this first plan necessitated the complete destruction of the Dalek race, it had to be regretfully discarded. The Doctor’s self-righteous morality does not allow him to condone genocide and — shameful though it is to admit it — the Master finds himself more interested in pleasing the Doctor than in mass slaughter.

Fortunately, the Master’s second plan is almost as brilliant as the first. He’d composed it far more quickly than he would have liked, but the Doctor had asked him to do it. The Doctor, looking at him with such tentative hope, had finally asked for _something_ and — as the Master often remarks to the man in question — the Doctor has always been his greatest stimulation. It had been the work of a moment to think of something that might satisfy him.

The new plan involves tracking down the Genesis Ark. It is supposedly a secret, but other people’s secrets have never meant a great deal to the Master. The information is all there in the Matrix: almost embarrassingly available to someone who was, until very recently, a part of it. The Master knows what the Ark is and how it works, and he’s certain he saw the thing on the prison planet, Shada during his escape.

Of course, Shada is also someone else’s secret. Three hundred years ago the existence of the planet was blocked from the mind of every single Time Lord by the most gifted psychic their race has ever produced. The Master broke through Salyavin’s block a week later. He remembers exactly how to get in and out of Shada. A sharp mental nudge and the Doctor remembers the planet too and frowns crossly, either at having been tricked in the first place or at having been so obviously bested. They both agree that the Ark can be reprogrammed for the situation at hand.

Once the Ark has been found, the Master believes it will be relatively simple for the Time Lords to rip simultaneous worm holes in the fabric of space at any point containing Dalek DNA. The Daleks can then be sucked through the Void by the Ark and into its limitless insides, where they can do whatever they please for the rest of eternity. It will take nine months to set up the worm holes and track down and reprogram the Ark, but, at the end of those nine months the universe will be completely free of the Daleks. No unnecessary loss of life. Quite brilliant.

“Brilliant,” the Lady President agrees, when the Master has finished explaining the particulars to her. He sees her eyes flick to the Doctor, who is sitting between them, long fingers closed around a china cup, looking remarkably serene for a man sitting between his ex-best friend-ex-nemesis-still current husband and the woman the still current husband has never entirely forgiven him for being happy with. A woman, moreover, who is now in charge of them both - technically, at least.

They are holding a war council. The three of them are meeting at a white, circular table in Romana’s private quarters to decide the future of the universe over tea and biscuits. The most terrible war any Time Lord can remember rages beyond the transduction barrier and the presence of the biscuits grates somewhat on the Master’s sense of occasion, but Romanadvoratrelundar is the president and can, of course, serve what she likes in her own rooms.

“It’s certainly brilliant,” she continues, “theoretically, but don’t you think it’s a bit dangerous?”

The Master is about to assure her that he has everything completely under control when the Doctor laughs. “A _bit_ dangerous? Now really, Romana,” he says, putting his teacup back onto its saucer, “there’s a good chance it’ll _work_ , but I think ‘ludicrously dangerous’ is a better description of the Master’s plan, don’t you?”

“Clearly, you were right never to take up politics, Doctor,” Romana says wryly. She sighs and takes her hands out from under her chin and joins them in front of her on the table. “I’m sorry, Master. It is a good plan, but creating that many holes is, as the Doctor rightly points out, ludicrously dangerous given the damage the War has already done to the fabric of space/time. Isn’t there anything else we can do?”

“I fear not,” the Master says, as the Doctor says, “Yes, I think there is.”

“No. Not unless we exterminate the Daleks, Doctor,” the Master says patiently, “and you were against that, if I recall correctly, so we agreed-”

“Yes, on your extremely brilliant plan,” the Doctor says, “I know, Master, I know, and we can always go back to it later, but I have a few modifications, small modifications to suggest which might make it less dangerous. Could you listen to them before you decide they’re superfluous?”

The problem with telling your still current husband that he may ask you for anything is that he may well do just that. Making a request is always an acknowledgment of personal deficiency and dependence, while granting it is a display of benevolent power. The Master believes this theory to be as sound as ever. But it assumes that there are some things that a intelligent, respectful person would never ask a man like the Master, requests which demean both of them. The century spent living in isolation at the Doctor’s apparent desire, for example, had been almost intolerable, but the Doctor had seemed to regret that yesterday. He’d realised how much better life could be under the Master’s control and had only asked for the right things - yesterday.

Yesterday, the Doctor had been his: allowing the Master to tinker with the insides of his precious TARDIS, running off to fetch tea he must have kept around for the Master’s own particular use, begging the Master to do that, oh, yes, _that_ , oh, Master, please to him over and over again. It had been as though the universe was thanking the Master for not murdering any of her inhabitants in over two hundred years.

A day later and they are back to the way things were before. This morning the Doctor woke him up and drowsily murmured a request for tea, tea, tea, Master, please, Earl Grey… with milk, please, Master, thank you. The power gained from making the Doctor tea — which he could have made himself had he really wanted it — is negligible at best. The Doctor had been demonstrably grateful obviously, but grateful for the _tea_ , rather than the condescension of his Master.

Sitting quietly while the Doctor mutilates the beautiful, brilliant plan that was composed as a gift to him is, if possible, even less rewarding.

One day of possession in exchange for a century of clean living and a stint in the Matrix, the Master thinks sourly. The Doctor will pay for this indignity later. On his knees, if possible, so the appearance of mastery can be observed, if nothing else.

“May I continue?” the Doctor asks. The Master waves a hand as if it is nothing to him either way and the Doctor smiles. “Thank you, Master. Now, I’ve been thinking,” he says. One of his hands slides on the Master’s thigh, stroking it soothingly as though he is an agitated cat: the movement, frustratingly, without the smallest trace of a grope in it. “And, while the Genesis Ark is clearly invaluable, the worm holes are, I think, only necessary as a means of pulling all the Daleks into the same area of space and time. Now, it’s obviously not going to be as effective as the original plan, but we could achieve _roughly_ the same thing by simple entrapment.

“What’s the one thing the Daleks want more than anything?” he asks, raising his eyebrows as if the Master and Romana are tots in a nursery rather than geniuses in their own right. “Access to Gallifrey. So - we stage a massive retreat across the universe, luring the Daleks back to Kasterborous and once most of them are circling around Gallifrey, we drop the shields. The whole Dalek fleet will descend on us within a few microspans, then we activate the Ark, trap the Daleks and put the shields back up.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit dangerous?” the Master deadpans.

“ _Yes_ , but only to us,” the Doctor says.

“Besides, I think ludicrously dangerous is a better description,” Romana points out. “Should I ask what happens if the Ark malfunctions, Doctor, or do I not want to know?”

“Oh, then we all die very quickly,” the Doctor says. He removes his hand from the Master’s leg and reaches for a bright blue biscuit, smiles. “What do you think?”

“I didn’t want to know,” Romana says.

“It does have a rather pleasing finality about it, though,” the Master admits, slipping his own hand into the Doctor’s nearest pocket now the Doctor’s arm is out of the way. This is very definitely a grope and the Doctor chokes on biscuit as the inner seam of his pocket rubs against him. It’s a crude and un-gentlemanlike move: one the Master would not have resorted to in this regeneration had the Doctor not provoked him. These are desperate times, however.

“We either win or we lose everything,” he continues, watching in amusement as the Doctor’s eyes dart towards Romana who is too close not to notice the reason for his escape if he attempts to make one. “All of nothing, literally.”

The Doctor gives the Master a rather pained smile. “A glorious alternative, isn’t it?”

“Oh, indeed,” the Master agrees, as pleased to hear his own words quoted back at him as he is to feel the Doctor’s cock hardening beneath his fingertips. “Perfect for the histories of Gallifrey, assuming that anyone is left alive to write them, let alone read them. Of course, the same is true of _my_ plan, which has the advantage of being both more elegant and more effective. Nevertheless, my dear Doctor, I do agree with you,” he says, withdrawing his hand because the Doctor’s breathing is becoming obviously ragged, and the object of this exercise is to inconvenience and embarrass him, not to get the two of them thrown out for public indecency. “Your plan is much safer — for the universe.” He gives the Doctor’s leg a friendly pat and turns to Romana. “Madam President, your thoughts?”

“You want my thoughts?” Romana asks with apparent surprise. “For all the notice you two were taking of me, I assumed I was just here to look pretty and provide the biscuits.”

“That’s not true, Romana,” the Doctor says, his voice still slightly strained. “You know I value your opinion very, very highly.”

“And the biscuits were not at all necessary,” the Master adds with a discrete smirk.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Romana says, lips twitching into a smile of her own, “but I assume that if I don’t sanction your insane scheme, you’ll only go ahead with it anyway. No, Doctor,” she says, as the Doctor begins to protest, “please don’t waste my time by disputing that. You know you would and that without the resources of Gallifrey behind you you’d be even less likely to succeed. We can’t go on as we are, and I can’t think of an alternative to what you suggest, so you have my permission. When are you leaving?”

“Immediately,” the Doctor says, “now that I have your permission, of course, Madam President.”

Romana shakes her head. “Of course. And, I suppose, you want me to entrust what remains of our fleet to the Master’s, shall we say, overly capable hands, too?”

“Very good. Yes, I do,” the Doctor says, pleased, as the Master says, “I beg your pardon?”

The Doctor’s face falls. “Oh. I assumed- I’m sorry, Master, I know we were going to go to Shada together, but that was part of your plan. For my plan to work, someone needs to stay behind and convince the Daleks we’re losing the War without actually losing the War.”

“I see,” the Master says coldly. “And you believe that no one is better suited to lose a war than I am.”

“ _No,_ Master,” the Doctor says with exasperation. “Obviously, I believe no one has a better chance of ensuring Gallifrey is still here when I get back than you do. I’m quite capable of locating and reprogramming the Ark on my own. I’m not capable of commanding an army, _particularly_ not in these circumstances.”

“But many other people _are_ ,” the Master says, glowering, even as he acknowledges and appreciates the compliment. “Despite what I may have inferred on other occasions, Gallifrey has many generals who are not _entirely_ incompetent.”

“Well, they’re doing very well,” Romana says, stirring her tea idly with a biscuit, “but they’re still relatively new to the experience. Organising this sort of double bluff is, unfortunately, going to require someone,” she pauses, presumably searching for the least offensive, appropriate adjective and then shrugs, “else.”

“And that has to be you, Master,” the Doctor says. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to and I wouldn’t ask, but there’s no one else. Please, do this for me.”

The Master nods because there’s clearly nothing else to be done. It is at least a request with some dignity to it.

The Doctor kisses him quickly on the cheek where the beard ends, _“Thank you,”_ and turns back to address Romana. “Now, it might take me a while to find the Ark and, once I’ve found it, I’ll have to make sure it _works,_ which will take more time. Shada seems to be the obvious location to run any tests since only the three of us and Salyavin know about it and he’s unlikely to return. Unfortunately, that does mean you won’t be able to contact me until I get back to Gallifrey.”

“Better and better,” the Master says sardonically.

“I agree it’s not ideal,” Romana says to him, “but it _is_ workable, as long as we set a date for the Doctor’s return and, Doctor, as long as you stick to that. Let’s say three months from today, you return with your miracle. We won’t drop the shields until you’ve re-established contact. How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” the Doctor says, standing immediately now this has been decided. “Thank you both.” Infuriatingly, there is no sign of a prominent and embarrassing erection in his cream trousers.

Romana rises to follow him and — though unwilling to be seen following the Doctor around yet again — the Master does the same.

“Well,” the Doctor says, pausing just outside the doorway. “I’ll see you two in three months then.” He starts to leave, turns back: “Unless, of course, I get brainwashed by Salyavin first, in which case, I hope you’ll forgive me any tardiness.”

The Master leans languidly against the doorframe. “Please give the dangerous psychopath my regards,” he says.

“And do be careful, Doctor,” Romana adds. The Doctor gives her a brief hug and promises to be good.

The kiss he gives the Master is equally brief: a hand against his jaw and a light press of closed lips. Regretful, the Master thinks, embarrassed - as well he should be. An apology of a sort, awkwardly given, but an acknowledgement that anything more intimate would be inappropriate after what he has just asked, which is certainly true. Unfortunately, a more lingering apology, an acknowledgement of the Doctor’s desire to stay with him, after their all too fleeting reunion, would have been more acceptable.

It is quite possible that something will go wrong over the next three months and this will be it. One day - in exchange for a century of clean living and a stint in the Matrix. _One_ day. The Master wants to grab his thoughtless, reckless husband and kiss him until he feels the crackle of Artron energy and has to let go before one or both of them regenerate from lack of oxygen. But he refuses to cling to the Doctor when the man so obviously wants to be gone — all of creation at stake, Master, sorry, another time perhaps — and so what may well be their last kiss is light, without passion, and over in a moment.

The Doctor pulls away, smiles, somewhat ruefully, and, without any further preamble, strides off down the corridor towards the hanger bay.

“Three months, remember,” Romana calls after him. “Contact the citadel immediately if anything goes wrong.”

The Doctor turns and waves cheerful acknowledgement and walks on. The Master and the president stand together and watch as the Doctor leaves them behind.

“I really hate that man,” the Master offers by way of conversation.

“Ah,” Romana says. “That must have been why you were pleasuring him under the table during our war council.”

The Master gives her an amused sideways glance, notes that that the president is not angry, or disgusted. That she is, in fact, smirking.

“He knows very well that it was a punishment rather than a reward,” he says, looking back in time to see the Doctor turn a corner and walk from view. “Ours is… an unconventional love.”

“In that you hate him.”

“That’s right, my dear,” the Master says, “I do, and that makes everything excessively difficult.” He realises that he has been staring mournfully down an empty corridor for longer than can surely have escaped the president, turns to her with a smile and offers his arm. “Shall we tell the troops the good news?”

“The good news about your being their new commander, or the good news about the three months of painful defeats they’re about to suffer?” Romana asks, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“Oh, I have no doubt they will be equally delighted by both,” the Master says as they walk together towards the barracks, “so we ought not to keep either gem to ourselves. That would be unpardonably selfish. Just be sure to tell them whose plan it was so that the weevils can be delivered to the right address.”

Romana laughs. “Master,” she says, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

*

The Time Lords are not at all delighted to be informed that they will now be led by a former-renegade who has thus far spent the War in the maintenance bay. With only three months to work with the Master is more than usually ruthless in crushing any opposition to his command — in one case, quite literally. The man’s new regeneration is far more obliging, however, and promises not to mention anything to the Doctor, which the Master assures him is a wise choice.

He withdraws all TARDISes from the field immediately. They have been more of a hindrance than a help recently. The psychic disruption of the War is wreaking havoc in the control matrix and three TARDISes were forced to self-destruct just last week when they materialised in the middle of the Dalek Cruciform instead of Cardiff, Earth where they had intended to refuel. It was lunacy not to recall the TARDISes earlier, but — the Master concedes — morale would have dropped astronomically at what seems to be a major step towards total defeat. Fortunately, defeat is now what they’re aiming for and so no one raises too strong an objection. Soon, the only TARDIS not idle in the hanger is the Doctor’s blue police box. The Master spends whole days trying not to think about how easily the Daleks will be able to locate him if they realise this.

Any former TARDIS-pilots with the slightest aptitude for independent thought have the capability to fly a basic two-man star-fighter shoved into their heads by their commander and are sent back out as a distraction. The rest are issued with vortex manipulators requisitioned from nurseries and museums. The Master gives them very specific instructions as to which battles to circumvent and which to let the Daleks win. He lets Arcadia fall before the evacuation has finished.

This is his most unpopular move until the Sontarans arrive. They have been clamouring to be allowed involvement from the beginning and all the Master has to promise them is a good fight to gain their support.

The first time he lands back on Gallifrey after the spherical ships appear in the sky, Romana corners him outside his quarters and demands how exactly he thinks he’s going to get rid of them once the War is over.

The Master smiles. “Everything is quite under control,” he says smoothly. “As to how, I’m afraid you just will have to trust me, my dear.”

“It’s the Doctor who trusts you,” Romana points out as the Master backs into his rooms. “I _like_ you, sometimes, but I’d have to be mad to trust you.”

“That’s very true,” the Master agrees and closes the door on her.

They win a few more battles — mainly due to the Sontaran legions — and lose many more. By the time the three months are almost over, Gallifrey’s troops have withdrawn to their home constellation, Kasterborous and are fighting what seems to be a losing battle around their own suns.

The Master sends the TARDISes back into the action a week before the Doctor is due to return. Two ram into each other on the first day, but the others are not recalled. They are used purely as smoke-screen cover for the Sontarans; nothing more complicated is worth risking. It must look exactly like a final, desperate stand and every day more and more Daleks arrive, pushing them back towards Gallifrey, and the sham becomes still more convincing.

On the day of the Doctor’s promised arrival, the Master returns to his own TARDIS for the first time since the Time Lords retrieved her from Betelgeuse V. She barely seems to recognise him at first: her outward shape flicking unnervingly between column, plinth, archway as he unlocks the door. At last though, once she has been prevailed upon to remain in column-shape, once she has been coaxed gently into take off and they are orbiting the planet below, the Master feels the familiar presence of his ship settle around his mind. He strokes the dark console, which hums steadily beneath his bare fingertips like a purr.

It would be safe to leave now, the Master realises as he slips out of orbit. It would be _easy_ to leave and, surely, advisable. He could avoid Gallifrey’s censure once it realises it no longer has a direct use for him, or, worse, its praise, which tends to be even more suffocating. It might take as much as a day for them to realise he isn’t among those lost or dead. By then, he could be far away from this tedious corner of the universe and the Doctor’s ‘improving’ influence. His TARDIS, sensing a familiar mood, displays the data of several planets ripe for take-over: defences crippled by the War, populations cowed, land still rich in mineral wealth.

The Master chuckles and dematerialises; rematerialises a mile away. The group of Daleks who had been bearing down on him, swing round and give chase again: eyes flashing rhythmically. The TARDIS suggests the Master might prefer Kurhan or Limas IV instead if the first group of planets were unsatisfactory, and the Master smiles fondly.

“Thank you, but no,” he says. He sighs as the console lights flicker balefully. “Yes, my dear. I’m sorry, too.”

He doesn’t hear the signal, but suddenly the shields around Gallifrey flicker and die. His external display screens show the sky bright and thick with Daleks as hundreds of battalions flare into existence and swarm towards the apparently defenceless planet: the TARDISes and Sontaran star fighters instantly forgotten. The Master has just enough time to sneer at the stupidity, the credulity of this genetically engineered ‘master race’, before the direction of the fleet reverses. Screaming in anger and surprise, ten billion Daleks fly backwards against their wills into a small, bronze prison ship tethered up to a harmless-looking blue box.

The Master sets his TARDIS to hover, pulls the door release and walks over to get a better view. The sight of countless Daleks twisting madly to try and escape the inexorable force pulling them in is less amusing than he’d imagined it. Strangely, the situation feels just as solemn as it is. The Last Great Time War is ending as he watches. Then — it is over.

After the final Daleks have been pulled out of Gallifrey’s atmosphere, the transduction barrier settles smugly back into place. It glows briefly orange and then fades. The Master looks over to the Doctor’s TARDIS and sees the Doctor, grinning and watching him from the doorway.

With an indulgent smile, the Master claps his hands, slowly, three times. The Doctor laughs and sweeps a low bow. He gestures with his head back into his TARDIS, eyebrows raised, and the Master nods and steps away from the doorway. He strides back to the console of his own ship, closes the door, sets the co-ordinates for the citadel hanger bay.

The TARDIS responds to his commands noticeably faster now. With so many Daleks gone, the wounds in time have already begun to heal. The Master feels a pang of regret at the decision he has already made as the Time Rotor stops oscillating, as the lights stop flashing and the TARDIS touches down on Gallifrey. He taps a few, final instructions into the main computer, seals all the important doors and wipes the Matrix data. He leaves without looking back.

The hanger bay is filled with people. Time Lords are not, on the whole, given to undignified celebration, but there is a general buzz of conversation as the Master steps out of his TARDIS and the door clicks shut behind him. Several important councillors — including the Lady President herself — are clearly so excited that they have neglected to don their ceremonial robes for the occasion, which is, perhaps, all that can be expected. Those closest even break into polite applause.

Then the door of the blue police box opposite opens, Romana shrieks, “You did it!” and runs towards the Doctor who catches her and twirls her around in his arms, laughing like a lunatic.

“That’s right, the War is over!” he whoops and kisses her: a short moment of spontaneous joy and platonic affection that, nevertheless, sets the Master glowering. The Doctor breaks away and grabs a bemused Damon in much the same fashion and bestows a brief, laughing kiss on him too. The Master spares a moment to fondly recall the good old days when the Doctor refused to touch anyone in case his pose of baffled asexuality should fail him, then the Doctor reaches him.

It is clearly supposed to be a very similar embrace to the ones that proceeded it. The Doctor seizes the Master’s face between both hands and pulls him in close, but before he can whirl away to molest Drax, or whoever, the Master grabs him around the waist and shoves his tongue down the Doctor’s throat. It was a mistake not to do this before he left. Clearly, three months has been too long for the Doctor’s butterfly mind and he has forgotten to whom he owes everything.

After a brief moment of confusion, the Doctor responds very well to the sudden repossession of his mouth. He moans, presses closer. He smells of sweat and oil and metal: sharp, but certainly not unpleasant, and all the more physically _here_ for the smell. That most of the Council and other assorted dignitaries are standing around watching seems to have temporarily slipped his mind. The Master, on the other hand, finds the knowledge — and more especially the Doctor’s disregard for it — delicious. He can feel himself growing hard against the Doctor — how much would he really object to being stripped and fucked in the middle of the hanger bay? — when Romana gives a particularly loud cough and the Doctor draws back, but not away.

He grins. “Salyavin sends his compliments,” he says as if the cough has reminded him of this charge, rather than of their substantial audience. The Master raises his eyebrows as the Doctor shakes his head cheerfully, “I’m afraid he insists that we drop round for tea, whenever it’s convenient, so I hope you really like-”

Romana coughs again and, this time, the Doctor turns to face her with a sheepish, “oh. Hello Romana.” The Master keeps an arm firmly around his waist, in case the Doctor gets any ideas about sharing his end-of-the-War enthusiasm with any of the others.

The Lady President gives them both a bright smile. “Well, now that’s over,” she says, “we should think about getting rid of the Sontarans.”

The Doctor laughs: his body vibrates against the Master. “Of _course_ , I knew I recognised those ships. You brought in the Sontarans. What a brilliant idea.”

“It was merely competent,” the Master says, pleased. “As for their departure,” he adds smoothly when Romana opens her mouth to object, “I promised that it would be taken care of and, indeed, it has been.”

“How?” Romana demands. “If you’ve promised them half the planet, or access to the Matrix-”

“I have not,” the Master says. He smiles, showing teeth, “I simply asked them, politely, if they would mind leaving once everything was over: a stipulation that was, of course, agreed upon before they arrived. The Sontarans are an honourable race and so I have no doubt that you will find the sky empty next time you examine it.”

“You _asked them politely,_ ” Chancellor Flavia repeats, incredulously, from Romana’s left.

“ _Very_ politely,” the Master amends with a smirk.

Flavia seems about to embark on a long tirade, and several of the other Time Lords look like they might be recovering the power of speech. Fortunately they are all cut off by Romana who says briskly: “Good. Well, I’m glad diplomatic negotiations proved so effective, Master. I haven’t had much luck with the Sontarans in the past.” She smiles, clearly indulging him for the moment and the Master inclines his head. "We can talk about how you managed it later, but for now, I think we should all go and freshen up before tonight’s ceremony.”

“There’s a ceremony _tonight_?” the Doctor says. “What ceremony? No one mentioned a ceremony.”

“I must have forgotten to mention it,” Romana says in an airy tone that suggests this is not entirely the case. “Yes, Doctor, there’s a ceremony tonight, celebrating the bravery and resourcefulness of the people of Gallifrey.” The Master stifles a laugh and Romana gives him a hard look, but continues regardless. “I’ve widened the parameters of the Grand Hall so we should be able accommodate everyone, and that includes both of you so don’t even think about trying to wriggle out of it. I want you there, in robes, ready to be made a fuss of. This whole thing _is_ , after all, in your honour.”

“Of course, of course,” the Doctor says quickly, “and that’s very kind, Romana, but you must have arranged this thing weeks ago. I’m just curious about what you would have done if we’d failed.”

Romana shrugs prettily. “I assume we could have turned the presentation ceremony into a memorial service if Gallifrey survived, and, in the more likely event the planet was simply destroyed, there wouldn’t be anyone left to complain about it anyway. The ceremony is at seven-”

She breaks off as the Master’s TARDIS dematerialises behind him. The Master doesn’t turn to watch it go; he doesn’t look at the Doctor. The achingly familiar wheezing sound rises, falls and fades away, and the Master keeps his eyes and smile safely directed at Romana, who sighs. “Master, is it worth me asking where your TARDIS is going?”

“No, my dear, I fear not,” the Master says. He smiles to himself, ducks chin to chest. “Unfortunately, my TARDIS is a very independent machine with a thirst to explore the universe, which I rarely indulge.” He looks back up. “I have no idea where she’s going now, but I expect she’ll be back within the week, filled with red sand and the lingering smell of starch. Now, will that be all, Madam President? Councillors?”

“Yes, you’re excused,” Romana says wearily. “You will be at the ceremony?” she calls after them as the Master pulls the Doctor firmly in the direction of the exit.

“Yes, of course,” the Doctor says, as the Master says, “No.”

_“Doctor?”_

“I’ll talk to him,” the Doctor promises.

Once they are out of the hanger, the Master lets go of him, half expecting the Doctor to split off in the direction of his own rooms. Fortunately, the idea does not seem to occur to the Doctor, who walks comfortably at the Master’s side towards the Master’s living quarters. He talks without need of a reply and, apparently, at random. Rather than the story of his recent exploits on Shada, he is currently relating how went to Earth’s Spain with his past self. Or rather, how he went to Spain with his future self, or, more correctly still, how two of his selves went to Spain, or, in the case of his second self, were taken to Spain by Sontarans. It was all excessively complicated, as these things usually are, but it was good to see Jamie again.

As it happens, the Master has already examined the Doctor’s dual recollections of this event in the Matrix, and so he knows that the Doctor is carefully circling a very specific question with what appears to be irrelevant prattle. Until the Doctor actually asks that question, however, he feels justified in not answering it.

He lets the Doctor’s voice provide pleasant accompaniment to their walk — the way some life-forms choose to have music playing in their ears — but doesn’t actually listen to the words until the Doctor says: “And now, after all my best efforts to contrary, it seems that _someone_ has given the Sontarans the key to time travel. Someone who knew there was no other option and did something very clever. Risky, some might say short-sighted, but very clever. Assuming it _works_ , of course. But you think the Sontarans will keep their word.”

“I’m afraid, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Master says without looking at him. They are in the right corridor now. The question and its answer will presumably occur on the threshold of his rooms: the Doctor has a superb sense of dramatic timing.

“No, of course not,” the Doctor says. “Sorry, I’m tired. Stupid Doctor, babbling on like this. But if you had, oh, I don’t know, given the Sontaran legions your TARDIS as a bribe to get them to leave Gallifrey, how long do you think you might have given it to them for? You said a week earlier. Do you think you would have given it to them for a week? Or… for good?”

“In that completely hypothetical scenario-” the Master says. He stops at his own door, touches his palm to the reader built into the wall and waits for it to confirm his bio-data.

“In that completely hypothetical scenario,” the Doctor prompts.

“Yes, I might well have offered them a week,” the Master says, as the door slides open. “I might even have programmed my TARDIS to release a limited amount of information towards the end of that week should their scientists fail to make any progress,” he continues. The lights flicker on obligingly and the Master strides into the main living area of his quarters, the Doctor following behind him. “If the Sontarans were to feel cheated by the exchange, it is possible that they might return despite our… hypothetical bargain. As it is, any information they might be able to extract from my TARDIS will be of just enough use to occupy them thoroughly for the next hundred years, whereupon, without a remote link to the Eye of Harmony, they will discover that they have run out of prospective fuel. Under such circumstances, I believe that they will then abandon the project completely.”

The Doctor smiles and shakes his head, runs his hand across the Master’s back and moves off into the room. “I told you, you were the right man for the job.” He peers at the items above the mantel piece: a large four dimensional ormolu clock, the metal Zagonia plant which has begun to produce small bronze blossoms that echo and enrich the gilt of the clock. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

Though he would have preferred it otherwise, the Master allows him his inspection: the Doctor has bought himself a certain degree of clemency with that kiss in the hanger bay. He takes a seat at the piano and half-heartedly picks out a melody that should more properly be played on a Celestial Harp, as the Doctor makes a circuit of the room like a prospective buyer, taking in the dark cream of the walls and the dark black-brown of the furniture and the dark wine-coloured sheets on the bed. The sheets are new and clean, flat and smoothly crisp against the mattress. The Master had them changed this morning in anticipation of the Doctor’s homecoming.

“Well, I like what you’ve done to the place,” the Doctor says, joining him at the long piano stool.

“It’s exactly the same as the last time you were here,” the Master points out as the Doctor begins to play the simple human tune ‘Heart and Soul’ one handed on the highest octave.

“Yes, I’d noticed,” the Doctor says, grinning when the Master gives him a wry glance. The piano is his after all, left over from when they shared these quarters. He could at least pretend to play it properly. “Are there still pictures of me up everywhere?”

“No.”

“My earlier incarnations, then.”

There are. In fact, there is a hollo-photograph of the Doctor at ninety on the lid of the piano, and so, rather than deny the allegation, the Master abandons their discordant half-duet and kisses the Doctor before he can find anything else to comment on. The Doctor manages a few final, flagging notes — _mad_ -ly — before his hand wraps around the back of the Master’s neck, pulling him closer. The Master, meanwhile, attempts to unbutton the Doctor’s waistcoat without him noticing, but the fourth button down is wedged in place and the sharp tug necessary to release it is going to distract the Doctor anyway. He breaks away. “As pleasant as this is, Doctor, shall we move somewhere else?”

“We really should,” the Doctor agrees without moving. “I’m afraid I must be in dire need of a shower.”

The Master strokes his face. “An excellent idea.” It seems a shame to waste the new sheets, but there will be time for that later. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“No, but it would just be a shower, Master,” the Doctor says, "so perhaps you'd prefer to stay here." He sits back, expression serious. “I’m exhausted, my poor old bones are weary. Could we please make love on that nice bed over there after I’m clean?” He smiles. “I won’t run away if you let me out of your sight for more than a microspan. I just want to shower and then I’ll come back, I promise."

“My dear Doctor,” the Master says sternly, as though the thought of the Doctor, legs wrapped around his waist, head thrown back against the wall of the shower cubical had not occurred to him. “You talk as though I have no self control, which, I’m afraid, I find rather insulting given the circumstances.”

The Doctor raises his eyebrows then glances pointedly down to where his waistcoat gapes half-open across his chest, and back up.

The Master sighs. “This is ridiculous. I promise I will not so much as molest you in the shower unless you ask me to. I merely wish to take advantage of my own bathroom facilities and, as I have seen you naked on several occasions during the centuries in which we have been married, I _assumed_ that you would not object to my time-saving suggestion. Now, will you please get up?”

“Sorry, sorry,” the Doctor says, with a shake of his head and an apologetic kiss, “yes, of course.” He gets to his feet, pulling his cravat open as he does so. “I assume you have towels?”

“Yes, Doctor. In the bathroom,” the Master says, gently condescending.

“Wonderful.”

The Doctor sheds his clothing carelessly. He leaves a scattered trail of rich fabrics behind him, which the Master picks up for him and folds over a chair, smoothing down the pile of the green velvet jacket almost without thinking. He removes his own clothes and adds these to the chair as a patter of water starts in the other room.

As he steps into the steam-filled cubical, it occurs to the Master that attempting to shower chastely with an excess of stored up sexual-frustration, and his cock already half-hard, and the Doctor, wet and naked and very close by, is going to be extremely difficult, but he dismisses this notion as cowardice.

The shower cubical is large enough that they don’t have to touch, but small enough that even at the furthest distance apart, the Master would have to merely extend his hand to pull the Doctor to him. He refrains - from touching, from even looking directly at the Doctor while the Doctor is facing him, but when he turns away in order to reach the shampoo from an alcove set in the far wall, the Master indulges himself and takes a long look at the Doctor’s back.

He has been in this body for almost a century now according to the Matrix. Although still physically a young man, his skin is mapped with scars that speak of those hundred years of reckless living and — unless the Master is much mistaken — at least a dozen sessions under the hands of skilled torturers, none of whom were him. Water trickles down the Doctor’s shoulders, collecting in and running down the deep valley of his spine and the shallower grooves of four long, pale laser burns. The Master wants to lick it off him, run his tongue up those old scars, those marks usually concealed beneath pristine clothes, marks he’d barely had time to become acquainted with before the Doctor slipped from his hands. He doesn’t, but, unbidden, his eyes follow the line of the water down towards the cleft of the Doctor’s arse, which — in contrast to his back — is perfect and unmarked. The Master’s cock throbs, fully hard now. The water splashing over him feels unpleasantly hot and the Doctor is too close not to be touched. Determined to keep his promise, the Master pulls his eyes upwards. There is a large angry bruise above the Doctor’s left hip and the Master extends a hand to it, just to have some contact with a part of the Doctor that doesn’t beg to be fucked. In response, the Doctor hisses a slight intake of breath which is unsettlingly reminiscent of the sound he makes when entered, and the Master withdraws his hand immediately.

“You see why I suggested the bed-” the Doctor begins with a weary laugh.

“Indeed,” the Master says shortly, “I’ll be outside. Take as long as you need,” and pushes his way out of the cubical into the bedroom beyond. There, he takes several shuddering breaths and tries to block out the sound of falling water still issuing from the bathroom, which conjures upsetting images of the Doctor standing beneath it. If only he would limit himself to requesting things that did not _directly contradict_ the Master’s own wishes, they might get on very well. The man is insufferable.

The Master paces awkwardly, letting the cool air of his quarters dry his skin, and tries to ignore his erection and the growing urge to return to the shower and ravage the Doctor — despite his feeble objections — if he doesn’t emerge soon. Fortunately, the water clunks off before his resolve breaks. The Master has enough time to recline in a position of relaxed unconcern on the bed, before the Doctor emerges, rubbing his hair dry with one of the brightly coloured human towels the Master has acquired especially for his use.

“Better?” the Master asks, noting with some satisfaction that the Doctor’s cock is as hard and flushed as his own.

“Mmm,” the Doctor says, throwing the towel into a damp pile on the floor. “Much better, Master, thank you. Now,” he says, climbing on the bed, and straddling the Master, “where were we before I made that unreasonable fuss about my personal hygiene?”

“As I recall, it wasn’t here,” the Master points out. The Doctor’s body feels slippery and the Master’s hands glide easily over the Braille of his back and up into his wet hair. “I believe we both were both wearing substantially more clothing for a start.”

The Doctor smiles. “Would you like me to get dressed then?”

“Certainly not.”

“Good,” the Doctor says, bending to catch the Master’s lips in an open kiss. As his tongue makes an almost greedy exploration, he starts up a slow frot, rocking his hips forward against the Master’s so that both of them moan slightly into the others’ mouth. It is perfect. Too soon though, the Doctor breaks away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the Master demands, trying to sit up as the Doctor crawls down his body.

“You’ve done so much for me over the last three months,” the Doctor murmurs, leaving little kisses down the Master’s chest. His drying curls paint cool damp trails behind him. “Now - I’m rewarding you,” he says and licks slowly around the Master’s navel and looks up at him, smiles. “Would you like that, Master?”

The Master can think of nothing he would like more — in principal. The idea of forcing the Doctor to his knees and fucking his mouth as the Doctor’s hands claw at his arse is one that sustained him through ten years of fixing broken toasters and teleports. But now the Doctor is over him, holding himself just above the Master’s cock, lazy and sensual, and the Master can see that the Doctor is not offering himself up to be used like that. Instead, the Doctor is offering to turn him into a shivering, whimpering wreck with that clever mouth of his. The Master will try to thrust up into him, try to control the exchange, but the Doctor will laugh and hold him steady. It will be exquisite, seemingly endless torture and — only when the Doctor is ready — will the Master be given release, babbling his name, as the Doctor smirks around his cock and watches him come undone. It is what the Master has always done to him whenever possible, and it is unthinkable that their positions be reversed now.

Nevertheless, he can feel his cock twitching, desperate for the Doctor’s attention after this interminable delay, and the Doctor seems to take this and his hesitation as encouragement. He smiles and kisses the tip of the Master’s cock, swipes his tongue across the slit.

Feeling his control rapidly sliding away from him, the Master lets go of the sheets clenched in his hand and grasps the Doctor’s hair, pulls him up before he can get any further.

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor says. “I thought-”

“And I, my dear Doctor, thought that you were exhausted,” the Master reminds him.

“Mmm. Well, I found my shower very invigorating,” the Doctor says with an indolent smile and another kiss, “and now I want to express my appreciation to you. In fact,” he murmurs against the Master’s lips, “if I’m completely honest, Master, what I _want_ is for you come into my mouth, but if you don’t-”

“No,” the Master says firmly. “Perhaps on another occasion, but not now.” In case the Doctor has any ideas about disobeying him, he uses his weight to turn them over so that their positions are reversed and the Doctor is flat on his back. “For now, Doctor, I have a better plan.”

“Oh, do you?” the Doctor says, raising his eyebrows like a challenge.

The Master smirks. “I believe so.”

The Doctor looks just as beautiful against the sheets as the Master had imagined he would: the pale cream of his flesh in gorgeous contrast to the pale pink scores across his body and the heavy red of his erection and the same red of the sheets beneath him, gradually darkening almost to purple around his head with the water still seeping from his hair. The Master keeps his eyes fixed on the image he has created for himself as he draws away from the Doctor and reaches for the bottle of lubricant on the nightstand. He coats his fingers and his cock in the gel and returns, nudges the Doctor’s legs apart and kneels between them.

“My plan,” he explains softly to the Doctor, who hisses as the Master circles his anus lightly with the tip of his index finger and then slides it fully into him, “is to open you up slowly for myself.” He curls his finger just to watch the Doctor shudder, his eyelids flutter, as he bites out: “Good - _Master_ -”

“Ssh,” the Master says as he adds a second finger. It aches to go so slowly, his cock twitching between his legs, but if the Doctor really is tired he should be careful not to push his luck. He presses a kiss to the inside of the Doctor’s thigh, nips lightly at the flesh. “Then, when you’re ready, Doctor,” he continues, “and only then-”

“ _Now,_ ” the Doctor says, “now would be-” he gasps again as the Master separates his fingers, opening him wider, “ _very_ good.”

The Master chuckles and pulls the fingers out of him. “When you’re ready, Doctor,“ he says, hooking the Doctor’s ankles around his shoulders, “I thought I would,” he lowers his voice as he pushes himself in, “ _fuck_ you as slowly as either of us can bear.” He stops when fully in and runs his hands up the Doctor’s chest. “Meanwhile, you may, if you wish, tell me just how much you appreciate everything I’ve done for you. How does that does that sound?”

“ _Perfect_ ,” the Doctor says, pulling the Master’s head down and kissing him.

“No ‘small modifications’ to suggest?” the Master asks politely, inches from the Doctor’s face.

“No, Master,” the Doctor breathes, though he could easily object to their position which is undoubtedly putting pressure on his sensitive lower back. Smirking, the Master begins to move, and the Doctor lets his head drop as he says, “It sounds like — ah,” he breaks off as the Master changes the direction of his thrust, slides back into him, as deeply as possible, “a brilliant plan to me, another brilliant plan. Oh, god, Master, this is too — no, your first plan was brilliant, and beautiful, and, _Master_ , oh, you’re — and the plan with the Sontarans, Master-”

More and more praise spills from him and the Master rewards this pretty display of gratitude by increasing the speed of his thrusts. Even then, the Doctor manages to keep remarkably on topic, thanking the Master for allowing him to talk in Romana’s War council, for allowing him to leave, for not trying to contact him during those three months, for doing such a wonderful, oh, Master, you’re, god, you’re — wonderful job with Gallifrey’s troops, most of whom seem to still be alive, which is — truly incredible, Master, really. It is only towards the very end, when his eyes flutter shut and his whole body seems to quiver, that the Doctor’s whimpering becomes a rush of exclamations about how good he feels, and how he needs to be given more, please, and faster because this is killing him. Obligingly, the Master takes a firmer grip on his legs and slams into him hard several times in quick succession. At last, the Doctor comes, clenching around him and triggering the Master’s own orgasm which he has been barely holding back.

The Doctor’s chest heaves and he starts laughing, breathlessly. “Good plan. Very good plan. One of your best, I think.”

“Thank you,” the Master says, smirking because the Doctor is clearly laughing with giddy pleasure, rather than at him. He pulls out of the Doctor and gently arranges the other man’s legs back onto the mattress as the Doctor says, “No, no, thank _you._

“Oh dear,” he says, grimacing as he examines the sticky mess of semen splattered across his stomach with a hand, “unfortunately, it does appear as though I’m going to have to take another shower before the ceremony.”

“Stay where you are,” the Master says firmly. He leans over the side of the bed, grabs the Doctor’s abandoned towel from its puddle on the floor and briskly, efficiently uses it to clean them both off before throwing it back in the direction of the bathroom. Traces of his own come still cling to the Doctor’s fingers and the Master takes his hand and gently sucks each digit.

The Doctor smiles and rolls onto his side so his arm is at a less awkward angle across his body. “I wish you’d let me,” he murmurs, before he is cut off by the wave of psychic energy that rolls through Gallifrey at the passing of a span. The clock on the mantelpiece chimes six times.

“ _Linear time,_ ” the Doctor groans, reclaiming his hand. “No matter how long I stay here, I never get used to it.” He pushes himself into roughly upright position. “Come on. We should get ready if we’re going to make Romana’s thing at seven.”

“Fortunately, I have no intention of making it,” the Master says, sitting up himself only to pull the Doctor back down with him, “and we are, therefore, spared the need to do anything.”

“Ah,” the Doctor says, against his chest, “so you actually meant what you said in the hanger bay. That’s extremely interesting, Master, if you don’t mind me saying so. The chance to dress up in an elaborate costume and be acclaimed by an entire planet sounds to me like your idea of the perfect evening.”

“Really,” the Master says, “because, I’m afraid, to me it sounds like a tedious reproduction of the finale of the first Star Wars film. Dear Romana will look beautiful in white, the robots will have been especially polished for the occasion, and I’ll be forced to stand next to you, pretending to be pleased and proud, when everyone in the room is well aware that if you hadn’t asked I would have happily let them burn.”

The Doctor laughs and cranes his neck upwards. “ _You’ve_ seen Star Wars?”

“Of course,” the Master says stiffly.

“And? Did you like it?”

“No, Doctor, I did not,” the Master says. He strokes the curve of the Doctor’s back, eliciting another delightful half-gasp when he runs his hand over the bruise. “But then I never cared much for Wells or Dickens or the people of Gallifrey, either. _My_ liking them was hardly the point.”

The Doctor leans forwards, cups the Master’s chin with his uppermost hand, and kisses him gently, like the last time before he left for Shada. This time, the Master opens his mouth, lets the Doctor’s tongue slide lazily across his teeth, and is about to press the Doctor backwards and distract him from this line of enquiry, when the Doctor draws back.

“What if,” he offers, with a smile, “I were to let you take me in the ceremonial robes? After the ceremony, of course.”

“No,” the Master says shortly, without giving himself time to consider this. He pulls away from the tangle of the Doctor’s limbs and begins to get dressed.

“Fine.” The Doctor leans up on one elbow to watch. “If you’re not going to ceremony, where are you going?”

“To your new summer house in your TARDIS,” the Master says, buttoning his trousers. He glances up at the Doctor, who is pleasantly dishevelled and, distractingly, obviously hard again already. “So are you, so I’d advise you to put your usual clothes back on so we don’t attract attention.”

“The ceremony won’t last more than two spans,” the Doctor points out, demonstrably cross now. He sits up. “I’ve barely been on Gallifrey for the last century, I’ve hardly seen my friend Romana since she returned from E-space and I want to stay _one night_. Why are you being so unreasonable?”

The Master gives his husband a patronising look to remind him who he’s talking to; the Doctor glowers at him.

“I’d advise you not to argue, my dear Doctor,” the Master continues, “unless, of course,” he raises his eyebrows, “you’ve put your TARDIS back onto isomorphic controls?”

The Doctor’s frown falters and the Master smirks. “A perfectly understandable lapse,” he says smoothly. “I’m sure you had many important things on your mind. Unfortunately, if you’re unwilling to leave with me now, I will be forced to take advantage of that perfectly understandable lapse and you can enjoy all the time you like in Gallifrey without me or your TARDIS. With so many decommissioned during the War, it’s unlikely they’ll be able to find you another one for a long time, but I’m sure the centuries will fly by. They may even make you Castellan after this. That would certainly keep you busy.”

The Doctor stands. “I see,” he says, pulling the top sheet around his waist with unnecessary modesty. The burgundy cotton trails behind him like the robes he won’t be wearing later as he strides past the Master to the desk by the door and begins to sort through its contents.

The Master watches him with amusement. “If you’re looking for something to stab me with, I’d suggest the weapons cabinet would be a better starting place.

“Please,” the Doctor says wearily, “don’t tempt me. As it happens, I’m not, at least, not yet.” Having found pen and paper, he leans over the desk and writes awkwardly, left hand still holding the sheet in position. "I’m just leaving Romana a note, explaining to her that our extremely rude departure is entirely your fault. I’ve also promised that we will return in a week to collect your TARDIS and take her out to lunch in Paris as an apology. Is that _acceptable,_ Master?”

The Master catches his chin between thumb and forefinger and kisses him. From another person, this would be an apology or a expression of forgiveness. “Be sure to make it a short note,” he says.

*

It is only when the Master is lying drowsily in the summer house — having graciously allowed the Doctor to suck him off as a reward for his obedience — that he remembers how little the Doctor likes big public ceremonies. How much he has always hated them, in fact. How he ran away from the vortex initiation, missed his graduation completely, and turned up late for their wedding so drunk he could barely stand. The likelihood of him wanting to go to _this_ ceremony is approximately the same as the likelihood that he might be convinced to become the co-ruler of the universe, which is — as the Master is painfully aware — zero.

With growing horror, the Master begins to realise just how thoroughly he has been duped. The power he felt returning to him is still the Doctor’s and the bastard has the cheek to call _him_ a psychopathic control freak.

It must all have been orchestrated from the kiss in front of the Time Lords. Maybe even earlier. Rassilon, there may not even _be_ a presentation ceremony. Indeed, it now seems extremely unlikely. That exchange between the Doctor and Romana was too meaningful. No, of _course_ , he should have known. They are in on this thing together. It must have been arranged for weeks. So, Romana knows that the Doctor has him wrapped around a finger and, undoubtedly, the whole council also know by now.

For a moment, it’s more than the Master can bear. How _could_ he have been so foolish? How could he have believed he’d actually won? Because he’d been enjoying it too much, presumably; because even now he recognises that there is a plan he can’t quite work out _why_ there is a plan or what the object is.

Though he would never admit it aloud, not all of the Master’s plans have been brilliant. The thing with Chronos was particularly unfortunate, but even that disaster pales next to this. As far as he can tell, the Doctor has — maliciously — let the Master believe in his own power and had sex with him, before luring him away from Gallifrey and Romana’s awful presentation ceremony — assuming such a thing exists. Then, there had been the highly satisfactory blow job and now the Doctor is making them both tea without any clothes on. Even if the object of this plan is to mock him for his gullibility later, to expose him as a doting fool before the council, it’s fairly weak. Unless the aim is not malicious at all.

The Master frowns, sits up, and tries to think like the Doctor. The Doctor who is, above all, a do-gooder, who would not intentionally try to trap him or humiliate him — those would merely be accidental by-products. Therefore, his must be a plan designed to please the Master which has simply gone wrong now.

He remembers the Doctor’s lips moving against his stomach, the Doctor smiling. _I’m rewarding you._ Not, the Master realises, _I am going to reward you,_ or _I’d like to reward_. I’m rewarding. Present continuous.

So then, presumably, the reward is ongoing. It was not the hot mouth around him, it was the power to refuse it if he wanted; it was the rush of control he felt telling the Doctor they were not going to the ceremony. And the Doctor is right, as usual: control over him is exactly what the Master wants. The problem is that there’s no longer a game to play, and so it’s very difficult to win. The Doctor has clearly decided that the best way around this is to stage several low-stake battles for the Master to defeat him in, which is vaguely endearing. But if the Doctor is staging the battles then he will always win, whether he means to or not. That will never do.

The Master gets to his feet and walks silently to the kitchen. The Doctor is standing by the counter with his back to the door, presumably waiting for the tea to brew. There are large windows in all of the walls, and the setting light of Betelgeuse reflects off the sea outside and the white surfaces inside, together making the room dazzlingly bright. The Master has always found this highly inconvenient, but it seemed ridiculous to paint the interior of his summer house black. Now, he’s grateful he left the walls as they were, because the Doctor’s naked body seems to glow, luminous, as he stands, partaking in this most of mundane of tasks in the evening light. All the imperfections, the scars and bruises, are wiped away by the brilliance of the room.

The Master pads up behind him, slides his arms around the Doctor’s waist and bites him tenderly on the shoulder. For once, the Doctor is slightly shorter than him which makes this possessive embrace more comfortable for both of them.

“The tea’s almost ready,” the Doctor says, leaning back against him. “I’ve been having some trouble finding biscuits, but-”

“I’ve called Romana,” the Master interrupts gently, kissing the edge of his chin. “Although unhappy, she has agreed to move the ceremony back by a span and a half so that we can make it.”

“Have you really?” the Doctor says, tensing slightly in the Master’s arms. “It’s not like you to change your mind.”

“Oh, I could never deny you anything,” the Master says.

“That’s very kind, Master, and I-”

“I know, Doctor,” the Master says, “I know, but I’m afraid you will have to thank me later. We should get dressed if we’re to be back on Gallifrey in twenty microspans. I believe, on reflection, that I may even enjoy myself. The robes, the adulation of my genius, a plethora of small sausages on sticks and, rather delightfully, Romana has promised to play the Imperial March when I enter.”

“Oh, I see. You’re not serious,” the Doctor says with obvious relief.

The Master chuckles into the wavy hair. “No, Doctor,” he says, “fortunately, I am not. Though it would serve you right if I was, you manipulative little bastard.”

“Mmm,” the Doctor laughs, turns his head and kisses him lightly. “Well, I learned from the best, Master. What was it you said earlier? _They might make you Castellan.”_

“No one deserves it more than you,” the Master says with a smile.

“That’s very true, but they usually try to make me president,” the Doctor points out, “and, unfortunately, Castellan is rather a step down after president, don't you agree?”

“I’m afraid I just don’t believe you have the leadership qualities necessary for that position. Besides, it can’t have escaped your notice that Gallifrey already has a very competent president. We became very close while you were holidaying on Shada and it would, I believe, be almost unforgivably rude to depose a friend.”

The Doctor laughs. “You can’t seriously believe you’d rather take orders from Romana than from me?” He taps the arm around his waist lightly. “I think our tea’s ready now.”

“I’d rather _ignore_ Romana’s orders than yours,” the Master corrects, ignoring the hint. “I wouldn’t take your orders either, Doctor, but should you want something you need only ask-”

“In that case-”

“-but not now,” the Master finishes, sliding his right hand down from the Doctor’s stomach. “You need to learn to pick your battles, and,” he murmurs in the Doctor’s ear, beginning to caress the other man’s cock, “if you could refrain from staging any more displays of weakness I’d be very much obliged. Tell me, are we currently missing a real ceremony?”

“Master, _the tea,_ ” the Doctor reminds him, trying to squirm away.

_“Doctor.”_

“Yes, real, as far as I’m aware,” the Doctor says. “Now, the tea-”

“Leave it,” the Master says, his left hand tightening round the Doctor’s hip. A few more strokes of his right and the Doctor is hard, his breath hitching in his throat as the Master increases the tempo and gives the fading bite mark on his shoulder a lick.

“But it’s - _stewing,_ ” the Doctor moans. “Master-”

 _“Leave it,”_ the Master repeats pleasantly. “I’m afraid I have a lot of anger to work out, so the tea will have to suffer. You can make me some more later.”

It’s possible that this is another charade for his benefit — though the Master suspects not, given the Doctor’s reverence for what is, essentially, flavoured water — but really it hardly matters if the Doctor thinks he’s currently winning. The Master is very good at long games. And, for now, the Doctor is here: trembling and gasping in his Master’s hands and after he comes messily over the white walls, the Master pulls him back into the bedroom and works his anger out properly.

In the kitchen the tea gets cold.

**Author's Note:**

> Epilogue: [What Shall We Do Today?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3673287/chapters/8121777)


End file.
